


Lavender's Blue

by moonstone1520



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluffy Ending, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Singing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, lullaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: A lullaby that means a great deal to Molly becomes so much more.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> The song is beautiful and very calming. I frequently sing it to myself when I'm anxious or stressed, which is how I got this idea in the first place. You can find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ow25lvYoKXo)

Sherlock strode down the corridor of Bart’s morgue, his fingers flying over the keys on his phone as he typed out a text to Lestrade.

_At Bart’s. If the corpse has blue painted toenails, it was the nanny. I’ll text—_

Sherlock slowed his pace as he picked up on sounds coming from inside the path lab. Not the usual cacophony of the bone saw or the clatter of tools dropping to the ground. No, this was…

_Singing?_

He slowly made his way to the doors of the lab, his ears pricked for the snatches of song he could have sworn he heard. Peeking through the windows, he spied Molly Hooper hovering over the corpse he was intent on examining, her mouth moving in time to the reedy tune reaching his ears.

 “—you shall be king. Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so? T’was my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.”

Ah, and a folk song no less. He stood, watching her, listening to the gentle melody, watching her lips curl up into a smile as she worked. She was no songstress by any means, but her quiet soprano would certainly lull to sleep any children she entertained having.

Immediately, an image formed in his mind of Molly rocking a child to sleep, singing this very lullaby. A child with curly auburn hair and blue-green eyes, Molly’s cheeks rosy, her entire being aglow with happiness—

Sherlock shook his head to rid himself of the mental picture. _Caring is not an advantage_ , he reminded himself, once again locking away the emotions that had recently come to fruition. She turned and he caught sight of the diamond ring on her finger, the jewel plunging his ridiculous flight of fancy into ice.

“Call up your men, dilly, dilly, set them to work. Some to the plough, dilly, dilly, some to the fork.”

Steeling his heart, Sherlock finished his text to Lestrade and placed his phone in his pocket, pushing the doors open and announcing his presence.

“Molly.”

She gasped, her cheeks immediately reddening as she whirled around to face him. “Sherlock! Ah—um—come to see Mrs. Windsor then? Lestrade said you’d be in today—”

Sherlock immediately cut her off. “No need to stop singing, Molly. Just because your fiancé detests the tune doesn’t mean that I do. Don’t quit your day job by any means, but it doesn’t bother me.” He approached the body and tore back the sheets that covered the corpse’s feet. “Blue toe nails. Lestrade will be happy.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “How did you know that Tom hates it?”

Sherlock straightened, pulling out his phone and firing off another text. “I’ve never heard you sing,” he replied. “Not exactly appropriate for the morgue, is it?” He winked at her as she giggled, then quickly sobered. “Today is the day your father died, yes? It’s a personal tune, I take it you sing it at home, where you can get as sentimental as you wish, away from prying eyes, but because _Tom_ doesn’t like it—”

“I’d rather not talk about Tom right this minute,” Molly interjected, her tone gentle yet firm. She removed the face shield from her person and set it with a clatter on the counter next to her. Crossing her arms, she stiffened, avoiding Sherlock’s questioning eyes. He finished typing and replaced his phone in his coat.

“Alright,” he murmured. He turned to walk away when she began speaking again.

“It was something my dad would sing to me before I went to sleep at night. I sing it to myself when I get emotional thinking about him. Doesn’t really do to cry over corpses, does it?” she joked, trying to inject some levity into the awkward situation she found herself in. She shrugged, meeting his eyes. “It makes me happy.”

Sherlock remained frozen, staring at her. “Are you unhappy, Molly?”

To her credit, Molly didn’t flinch or look away from the invading question. She continued to meet his gaze, something in the air shifting between them.

“You deserve to be happy, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock murmured.

Dropping her eyes, she returned her attention to the corpse in front of her. “I think you should go now,” she said quietly. She grabbed the face shield and replaced it, picking up the bone saw and turning it on. She paused before driving it into the flesh before her, turning it off and looking at the space where Sherlock stood.

“Sher—”

A swinging door was all that remained of the detective’s presence. Molly sighed sadly and turned the instrument back on, humming under her breath.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, lavender’s green. When I am queen, dilly, dilly, you shall be king.”

***

He woke up dizzy and confused. The pain in his chest was no longer excruciating, but it wasn’t exactly dull, either. He retained vague memories of humming, a quiet soprano lilt invading his mind…

“When was Molly here?” he asked, prompting John’s attention. He put down the paper he was reading and rushed to his friend’s side.

“Hey, how are you feeling? The doctor says you can go home soon—”

“When. Was. Molly. Here?” Sherlock repeated, biting the words as he said them.

John swallowed and smirked. “How do you know she was here at all?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Detective, remember John? There’s a whiff of her perfume in the air. That magazine on the table next to your chair, she subscribes to it—reads it for the politics—”

“Yeah, that would all be well and good and interesting and all that, Sherlock,” John interjected, his smirk growing into a grin, “if she _had_ just been here. However, Molly Hooper hasn’t been to see you for three days, now.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. _Damn it_. “But… she was humming, singing! I remember her singing, I remember her… humming…”

“And she was,” John agreed, “when she was here three days ago. She was singing some silly little folk tune while she was reading your chart and keeping an eye on you so you wouldn’t bloody run away again.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, bracing himself for the questions he knew were coming.

“Now, my question is—” _here we go_ “—how do you know what Molly’s perfume smells like? Or that she subscribes to that particular magazine?”

“You did ask her about my bolt holes, didn’t you?” Sherlock questioned, in a tone that told John to back off. “So you know that I have spent time at her flat.”

“Uh huh, yeah, I’ve been to Molly’s flat, Sherlock.” John’s grin became almost gleeful. Sherlock wished he could punch him. “She doesn’t have a spare room.”

“How’s Mary?” Sherlock pestered, knowing that even mentioning his wife’s name would cause his friend to shut down.

John’s grin immediately fell and his face became stony, his eyes going flat. “Sod off,” he replied quietly, storming back to his chair and flopping into it angrily. He picked up the paper he was reading and snapped it in front of his face, blocking him from Sherlock’s view. Sherlock sighed to himself and, unconsciously, began humming “Lavender’s Blue”.

Behind his paper, John smiled.

***

She climbed up the stairs to his flat, slowing as the strains of the violin came wafting out of the room. Inhaling sharply, she grinned madly and flushed with pleasure, her heart doing giddy little flips as he continued to play “Lavender’s Blue” on his instrument.

***

She was pacing now, wound up so tightly that he knew that if he even breathed wrong she would snap at him. It wasn’t his fault that they had to stay locked up at 221B while Mycroft investigated the latest death threat against his little brother and his rumoured paramour. (Okay, it might have been a little bit his fault, but really, Molly Hooper’s part in his jump from Bart’s was common knowledge now and he thought he knew where the new Moriarty threat was going, but he miscalculated spectacularly and now they were both under house arrest and since the press actually gives a damn now about his {nonexistent} love life since Janine, they jumped to the only logical conclusion as the paps witnessed her entering the building but not leaving it. For three days.) He typed into his laptop and a soft tune filled the room. She was still pacing ( _she’ll wear a path into the floor soon_ ) oblivious to the tune that emanated from the speaker. He stood took a few steps into her path, waiting for her to spin and pace the other direction until she collided with him, her hands landing on his chest.

“Sorry,” she murmured, still agitated. He placed his hands on her shoulders, the gesture forcing her to stop and look up at him questioningly.  “Sherlock?”

“Dance with me,” he offered. Her brows furrowed, then immediately relaxed when she heard the music drifting from his desk. She bit her lip and dropped her eyes, sliding one hand up to his shoulder as he grasped her other hand and slowly moved with her. The tension she had been carrying for days slowly melted out of her and she relaxed against him, closing her eyes in contentment. He smiled when he heard her begin humming with the familiar tune.

“Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue. If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you.”

Molly looked up at Sherlock and locked eyes with him. His gaze flicked to her mouth and he slowly inched closer, giving her time to stop this if she wanted to. Instead, she surged forward and pressed her lips to his, opening her mouth to him as they continued to move together.

“Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, and the lambs play. We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm’s way.”

***

Molly opened her eyes slowly to the dark room. The door was slightly ajar, letting in a sliver of light from the sitting room. She glanced over at the clock on the bedside table: 3:17am. She groaned slightly as she crawled out of bed, ready to head to the kitchen to heat up the kettle. Opening the door wider, she heard a thin baritone drifting lazily to her ears.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, lavender’s green. When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen.”

Approaching the sitting room, Molly’s heart swelled at the sight that met her eyes: Sherlock rocking in the middle of the room, singing her father’s lullaby to their baby daughter: she of the curly, auburn hair and the blue-green eyes. Molly crept across the room, sliding her arms around her husband. He smiled down at her and dropped a kiss on her forehead as she picked up their song.

“I love to dance, dilly, dilly, I love to sing. When I am queen, dilly, dilly, you shall be king,” she sang softly, brushing a finger against her daughter’s cheek. Wrapping an arm around Molly, Sherlock continued:

“Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?”

“I told myself, dilly dilly, I told me so.”

 

 


End file.
